


Past the Size of Dreaming

by littledust



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character Study, F/M, Gen, Mal Was Right, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 23:27:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2087109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littledust/pseuds/littledust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mallorie’s hand closes on the doorknob behind her. Without taking her eyes off the projection, she attempts to unlock the door, but it seems frozen in place. Of course: this world operates under the logic of dreams, or stories. The key is under her tongue, a purchase of safe passage. (A Mal Cobb character study.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Past the Size of Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

> I started this story four years ago and finally got the last part of the story out. Thank you to anachronistique and Fahye for their encouragement. ♥ The title hails from Shakespeare's _Antony and Cleopatra_ , though I am given to understand there is a book bearing the same title.

Mallorie is five years old when she asks her father to teach her about dreams. He teaches grown-ups, so why not her? She knows she is still a child, but she's serious, Maman is always remarking on it, and grown-ups are serious. She brings out her crayons and her paper to her father and pleads. _I want to know, I want to learn, I want to go to your school._

Her father picks her up and spins her around, then tells her that she should draw him a house, a beautiful house for her dolls to live in. "The kind of house that you see in your mind, that you put on paper, I will help you bring into the world," he says, with a queer sort of look that Mallorie doesn't understand.

She starts drawing right there at her father's knee. He makes suggestions, tells her about something called perspective, which is making an imaginary thing look real. Mallorie draws the most beautiful dollhouse and together they show her mother, who exclaims in admiration. "Perhaps I can make the furniture," she says, and Mallorie claps her hands together with glee.

Mallorie isn't allowed to cut the wood, but she helps her father measure, holds the box of screws, paints with swift even strokes. "I teach an art, my love," her father says as he builds, and Mallorie listens in wide-eyed delight, recognizing the voice he uses in his classroom. "Creation is an extension of the self into the world; it is the self's reflection of the world; it is two things that are true at the same time. You are a man dreaming you are a butterfly _and_ a butterfly dreaming you are a man. The notion that you must choose is false."

"I'd like to be a butterfly," Mallorie says, painting the window frames soft yellow.

Her father chuckles. "Perhaps we should call you Psyche, then."

Her mother, who is passing through with a glass of wine in hand, smiles but shakes her head. "Miles, you will fill her head with jokes she doesn't understand, and she will not rest until she figures them out!"

True to form, Mallorie demands, “Tell me about Psyche, I want to know!”

As her dollhouse comes to life under their hands, her father tells her the story of Psyche, the girl loved by a god she could not see, the girl who endured hell to reunite with her lover, the girl whose name means _soul_ and _butterfly_. As soon as her father finishes, Mallorie asks to hear the story again.

*

“Because it’s not _fair,_ that’s why!” Mallorie shouts, too loud in the kitchen. Her words cling to the walls like insects, buzzing with venom. She grips her books tighter, staring at the way her fingers whiten at the tips.

Her mother places two fingers under her chin and tilts her head so that their eyes meet. She does not look angry, only a little sad. “It would not be fair to my students, who have worked so hard for their positions, for my daughter to walk in as though she has surpassed their accomplishments. You are brilliant, but you know that something without proper foundation cannot stand. You are disappointed, but you understand why you must study theory before you are granted the opportunity for application.”

Mallorie nods, but she looks away from her mother as she does, concealing the trembling of tears on her eyelashes. It is always this way with her mother, who reads the blueprints of people’s minds and then hands down her pronouncements from on high. Mallorie loves her, but she longs for her mother to be wrong just once. She bites her lip and considers throwing her books to the ground.

Still, the internal struggle between her adolescent contrariness and her hunger for knowledge doesn’t take long to settle. Mallorie has always been consumed with the desire to _know,_ and she attacks psycho-oneirology with the same zeal she attacked architecture. Her mother’s field is more nebulous than her father’s, but it still makes intuitive sense, strange logic requiring only a few leaps of faith to bridge the gaps. By day, Mallorie buries herself in textbooks, and at night she dreams of airy buildings, held together with nothing more than light.

“Take a break every now and then, my Psyche,” her father says. He still calls her by the old nickname whenever he wants a laugh from her. She favors him with one now, and he looks relieved to hear such a girlish sound from her lips. Mallorie wants to reassure him, but one academic ought to understand another.

Her mother watches the progress of her research with a mix of admiration and regret. “I fear I have made you too serious,” she says, tempering Mallorie’s triumph at having grasped the complexities of lucid dreaming at last. A practical application for her studies, yes, but not one she needs an injection or her mother’s approval to practice.

“I’m almost ready to go under,” Mallorie says, and smiles because her mother knows it’s true.

*

Stepping into a dream is like waking up after a long slumber.

“You’ll have to forgive me for being a bit droll with the design,” her father says. Mallorie shakes her head as she realizes they’re standing outside a large-scale version of her dollhouse. There are subtle differences in its appearance, a mark of her father’s personal style versus the barely emergent style of a five-year-old. A little girl that looks rather like her childhood neighbor runs past, trailing a kite behind her.

Her father is saying something about never basing a dream entirely from memory, but of course that was covered in introductory theory and the hundred forms every student must sign before enrolling in this class. The other students are absurd enough to be taking notes in a dream, save for the American student, who remains quiet. Mallorie looks up at the sky and notes the blurred quality of the light, the way the clouds drift in opposite directions. It’s hard to force her brain to take notice, and she almost loses herself in the blue of the sky.

“The world of dreams is a deceitful one.” Her father’s voice seems aimed specifically for her ears, and she returns her attention to the lesson, startled. But he is addressing the class as a whole, though he quirks a smile when his eyes meet hers. “You are of course familiar with the concept of a totem, perhaps Dr. Suen’s most significant contribution to the field.” Mallorie tries not to laugh; the idea was more hers than the good doctor’s, but a seven-year-old can scarcely be given credit for coming up with an idea she does not fully comprehend.

“You will not require one unless you are approved to study dreams within dreams, but I urge you all to create one. Find or make a small object whose behavior only you can predict. Study it. Memorize it. Do not overestimate the conscious mind’s grasp on reality. The mind wanders, as they say.”

The class breaks out into nervous chuckles. Mallorie slips a hand inside her pocket to feel the smooth metal of her own totem. She made it herself, the day after one of her mother’s colleagues slipped into a coma. Such incidents are rare nowadays, but there is always a risk. Her father will still not allow anyone to see or touch his totem.

Perhaps sensing the pall his warning has thrown over the lesson, her father begins a spirited demonstration of how far an architect can bend the rules of physics before the projections notice. Even Mallorie is swept up in the easy grace of his dreaming.

“What is your totem?” Mallorie asks her mother after the lesson is over, stopping by her office to relate her first shared dreaming experience. Her father has actively refused to tell her about his, but her mother has simply never offered the information. Her work mostly takes place in the physical world, anyway, which has never quite made sense to Mallorie--one of the foremost experts on dreams ought to spend more time asleep.

Her mother caps her pen and rests it atop the stack of articles she is editing. “A glass of wine, the taste of bread,” she replies, with a wave of her hand that is perhaps meant to make the statement less cryptic. At Mallorie’s frown of curiosity, she continues, “A totem is, as your father would say, an elegant solution for keeping track of reality, but it is not infallible. When you have mastered shared dreaming, you will know if you are dreaming if you try to eat or drink. The idea of something will always taste different from the reality.”

“That’s not foolproof, either. People have tasted things in dreams before.”

“Some have more realistic dreams than others, I concede. One may taste in a dream, but it will taste _different_ than it does in reality. It is a subtle distinction. In any case, this skill is especially useful in shared dreaming. Architects are so caught up in appearances. It takes a great artist to call upon all the senses.” Mallorie is surprised to hear such words coming from her mother, who is ever the scientist in all things. Her mother leans forward at her desk and continues, “I don’t need a totem because I engage in this world. It’s why I worry about you being so serious, you know. Those who live inside their minds find it easier to become lost.”

Mallorie takes a step backwards, stung. “You were worried before I even knew I wanted to study psycho-oneirology.”

“How could you ever want to study anything else? Only the deepest oceans are as much a mystery as the subconscious.”

There it is, the diagnosis. Mallorie feels the old childish impulse to argue bubbling up, and is unable to prevent herself from snapping, “It must be hard, being right all the time.”

“You have no idea,” her mother says, and her voice is tired.

Mallorie marches out of her office and heads straight to the library, one hand clenched tight around her totem.

*

It is two months before she interacts with her classmates in any meaningful way, beyond the occasional question about the reading or complaint about the weekly exams. Mallorie keeps her head down to avoid questions about her parents, and because, for the first time in her life, she needs rather than wants to spend several hours studying.

Naturally, this is when she develops her first inkling of a social life.

It starts when the girl with the sprawling Cockney accent cracks a joke in English and Mallorie lets out a snort. After class, the girl introduces herself: “Name’s Kalinda, and never you mind about my last name, no one can pronounce or spell it anyway, and yes I realize I’m talking to a Frenchwoman.” Kalinda is an Anglo-Indian girl with deep dimples and a penchant for silly jokes, and it turns out she needs help in every subject that doesn’t involve numbers or drawing up blueprints.

“I’m rubbish at French,” she admits with a rueful grin. “Brilliant at everything else, of course, but keeping up’s hard. Dom--that’s the American fellow, don’t you know anybody’s name?--he’s been helping me, but he’s not a native speaker, and we’re both getting in a bit over our heads, so to speak. I’d offer to tutor you at maths in exchange, but you’re so good at everything. What about buying all your drinks for a night or two, how’s that sound?”

Mallorie has to take a moment to decipher Kalinda’s rapid-fire speech; it’s been a few years since she’s visited her aunt and grandparents in England. “What makes you so sure I’m good at English?” she asks, then winces internally. She had almost forgotten the pleasantry of talking to someone her own age, and here she is, making a mess of things.

Thankfully, Kalinda doesn’t seem offended. “Everybody knows you’re the daughter of the Professors Wolfe. You look just like your mum, it’s kind of obvious.”

“I will help you.” Mallorie makes a split second decision, helped along by Kalinda’s cheerful candor. “You don’t owe me anything. I would appreciate a study partner.”

Making friends with Kalinda turns out to be as easy as making friends in primary school. All it takes are a few mutual interests, a few nights poring over books, a few shared drinks. At first, Mallorie insists on speaking only in French, but relents when Kalinda teaches her how to properly swear at football matches. Sometimes the American, Dom, joins them for their study sessions. It is then that Mallorie discovers that Kalinda is an incorrigible matchmaker.

“I’ve got to do something while I’m away from Missy,” Kalinda explains, and then sighs. Missy is Kalinda’s girlfriend who, judging by her smile in the picture Kalinda carries in her wallet, has an equally sunny disposition. The only time Kalinda ever looks sad is when she’s homesick for the people she loves.

“All right, tell me why you think we’re a good match,” Mallorie relents. True to form, Kalinda brightens.

“He’s over the moon for you, you silly girl! He used to talk ever so much more when it was just the two of us trying to muddle through our work, but now he shuts up to hang on to your every word. He seems nice enough, certainly he’s not bad to look at, you might give him a chance.”

Mallorie mulls Kalinda’s words over in class, where Dom, for all his taciturn disposition, walks through dreams with the ease of psycho-oneirologists twice his age. She’s dated before, but she’s never dated an intellectual equal. Just as she’s thinking that the notion is appealing, Dom notices her gaze and she flushes. Kalinda snickers, so Mallorie elbows her in the side.

When Dom turns up at their next study session, Kalinda develops an urgent need for a snack and all but runs from their table in the library. Mallorie rolls her eyes and the two of them sit in awkward silence, until Mallorie glances over his sketches and offers a suggestion that apparently violates an international code of aesthetics, from the face he makes.

When Kalinda returns, Mallorie is still in the throes of a spirited debate with Dom, having filled a page with her own sketches to emphasize her point. “The line it creates is an atrocity! I will not have it in my dreamscape!”

“Thank God it’s my dreamscape,” Dom retorts, his pencil flying across the page. “What if I change it up to something like this? Think you can live with it?”

Mallorie studies the paper, mouth pursed. “Well, _that_ looks decent. Why didn’t you draw it that way in the first place?”

“Good to see you two getting on so well,” Kalinda interrupts happily. “Anyone want biscuits?”

*

The door trembles under Mallorie’s touch.

“I hope this isn’t a memory of yours,” she says, walking through doorway, into the nondescript foyer and then into a dining room painted in cheery yellow. The furnishings are all golden wood with accents of white; standing here is like being inside a sunbeam. “But if it is, I would like to see it.”

Dom gives her a strange smile. “It’s just a memory of a dream, Mal.”

Mallorie ignores the meaning of the nickname in favor of its familiarity. They are almost friends now, “almost” because of the unspoken tension hanging between them like a curtain. Kalinda calls this the “pre-dating dance” but Mallorie doesn’t know enough of the steps. She rather likes the unseen dip and twirl of emotion all the same.

“Time to find the backyard,” Mallorie murmurs, trailing her fingers along the preternatural white of the tablecloth. It feels less soft than it looks, which speaks to either a lack of quality in the weave or an error in the continuity. It’s difficult to tell sometimes.

This is Dom’s idea: build a maze in the dreamscape. The theory is that projections, lacking a map, will become lost in the endless turns. The theory is also that, human nature being what it is, reaching the end of the maze will result in a revelation for the researchers. Mallorie accused Dom of an excess of psychology when he first pitched the idea, but the idea fascinates her enough that here she is, subject of an exploration of her subconscious. Dom, who expected to be the subject of the first maze project, promised to design the maze in such a way that it “leveled the playing field.” Mallorie wasn’t and still isn’t sure what that turn of phrase means, though context suggests an attempt at equality.

Turning left takes them into a kitchen wallpapered with patterns of fruit. It’s another room brimming with suggestions of home and warmth. Mallorie begins to suspect that the real challenge of the labyrinth lies in its allure rather than its darkness; or rather, the darkness is wrapped up in light. “Left again,” she decides, pointing to the only door with peeling paint, and Dom follows with making any indication of whether she has chosen correctly. Before they went under, she told him to let her try to find her own way.

They pass through room after room, all equally tasteful and inviting. To avoid the temptation to linger, Mallorie and Dom make quiet conversation, mostly about psycho-oneirology. All they ever seem to talk of is their schooling, but it’s shadow without substance, “smoke and mirrors” in English.

“Where are all your projections?” Dom wonders.

Mallorie shrugs. “My mind understands this place as a maze. We ought to keep an eye out for the minotaur.”

Her matter-of-fact statement gives them both pause. Dom laughs nervously and asks, “Does this make me Theseus?”

“You designed the labyrinth, though.” To ease the atmosphere, she adds, “My father calls me Psyche when he’s feeling whimsical. It’s from the story--”

“The story of Cupid and Psyche.” His eyes are warm and blue, like the Mediterranean. “Who does that make me?”

Blood pounds in her ears. Mallorie turns aside the impulse to steer the conversation to safer waters, finds her tongue in her education: “The god of my idolatry.”

They are standing in a doorway, Mallorie wondering whether she should kiss him before he places the quote or after. He looks pleased yet puzzled, as if he cannot remember his lines, and she wants to kiss him, wants with such perfect clarity that she knows the curtain between them has been torn asunder.

It is then that the minotaur finds them.

The cozy lights on the walls flicker on and off in hectic pattern. Mallorie screams as a lamp crashes to the floor in the brief moment they are in darkness. She snatches Dom’s hand in her own and begins to run. Dom is shouting something, but this is her personal nightmare come to life and pure survival instinct has taken over.

The pattern. The peeling paint. Mallorie takes Dom’s sudden silence as evidence that she has discovered the key to the maze. All around them, the lights go on and off; behind them, the darkness creeps.

Mallorie leads them back to the kitchen and somehow she isn’t surprised when she sees the second door, the one with white chips of paint drifting from it like snow. “It won’t harm me,” she says to Dom.

“You found the exit, Mal, we can go--”

“The revelation isn’t at the end of the maze,” she whispers. “We’re misremembering our stories. The revelation is always the monster. It’s always the things we keep locked in our hearts.”

Mallorie flings open the door and shoves Dom outside, slamming it shut as the darkness closes in.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she says.

“I know,” she replies.

Her projection of herself is wearing jeans and a lab coat, her hair pulled with a clip. Her expression is hard to make out until the lights flick back on: she looks kind and tired, and very much like her mother. “This is a nice place,” the projection observes, crossing the floor. Mallorie flinches, but she only picks up a cloth and begins wiping the counter. “You want to make a home with Dom. You can tell from the shape of his dreams that you’re meant to be together.”

The same spot keeps reappearing on the counter, no matter how many times the projection wipes it away. Mallorie licks her lips and replies, “What do you want?”

The projection smiles. “What do _you_ want?”

Mallorie’s hand closes on the doorknob behind her. Without taking her eyes off the projection, she attempts to unlock the door, but it seems frozen in place. Of course: this world operates under the logic of dreams, or stories. The key is under her tongue, a purchase of safe passage.

“I suppose I’m the housewife in the laboratory,” she says, and the projection gives an almost imperceptible nod, professor to student. “Are you my greatest fear, or my dearest wish?”

The projection shrugs. “Both, and neither. Really, you’re asking all the wrong questions.”

A clock is ticking somewhere in the next room. The rhythm is human, imperfect. Mallorie never much liked using a metronome during her piano lessons. “I’m not a metaphor for anything,” she says, and tastes metal. “A reflection is just an echo, isn’t it?”

“Pass,” says the projection, and her mouth is the lock, giving way to the key.

Mallorie surfaces in the waking world, Dom’s face worried above her. She grips his hand with fierce tenderness. The air whispers _freedom_ as she draws it into her lungs.

*

Mallorie isn’t precisely sure when she begins her relationship with Dominic Cobb. She remembers the first time he asks her to dinner, but he kisses her for the first time during the asking, not after the dinner itself.

_“I want you to come out to dinner with me one night,” he blurts, after they drop Kalinda off at her flat. “And don’t say anything about what Americans consider food. I have an Italian grandmother, I’ll have you know.”_

_Mallorie slides a hand into his, laughing. “And I have a British grandmother, so don’t talk to_ me _about what constitutes proper food.”_

_She is still laughing when he cups her face in one hand and kisses her lightly as a butterfly rests on a flower. As she touches her mouth in surprise, he kisses her forehead and says, “I’ll see you Saturday night.”_

All she knows is that she has never experienced such joy, not in all her life. She is part of an unconquerable trio (Dom & Mal & Kal, as coined by Dom in his flat American accent), sunk deep into dream research, and yet she has never been so alive. Missy is here on holiday, and they all roam Paris like fools in love. Her parents are so happy for her. Mallorie makes love to Dom and for the first time understands what her mother means by _a glass of wine, the taste of bread._ She still carries her totem in her pocket, but there is no point in spinning it. Nothing is more real than this life she’s living, this love, this happiness.

*

Their wedding feels like a dream, except the reception is too loud with music and laughter. Anyone would wake up at the noise. Mallorie tosses her bouquet and Kalinda catches it with a delighted shout, then steals the bride for a dance.

"Probably not traditional, but who knows how Western weddings work!" Kalinda says.

"I'm not certain myself," Mallorie says, and hugs her best friend close. Kalinda''s leaving soon, globetrotting in the name of dream research. "It hasn't quite sunk in yet."

"Just look down at that big rock on your finger and you'll be fine."

Mallorie weaves her hand through the air in time to the music, admiring the sparkle her ring makes. "As long as I don't lose it."

Kalinda kisses her cheek, suddenly serious. "You would never. You're too responsible for that."

Then someone calls for her. "I think the buffet table is literally calling my name," Mallorie says, tugging Kalinda along with her. "I think we need another glass of wine."

*

“You two are going to have the most unfairly adorable children,” Kalinda complains, feeling the baby kick. “Why didn’t you call me the minute the stick turned blue, you silly girl? I’ll never forgive you.”

“You were on the other side of the world,” Mallorie protests. “Did you even have a working phone?”

“Details,” Kalinda says with an airy wave of her hand. “Besides, you managed to get in touch with me to ask for help with your research. I suppose it’s inadvisable to drug yourself in such a delicate condition, but why not make Dom do all the work? You two can practically read each other’s minds. Got right annoying in school.”

Mallorie shifts, attempting to get into a more comfortable position on the couch. She hasn’t really been comfortable since her fifth month of pregnancy. According to her mother, the first child is always the most difficult, “though I don’t have any first-hand experience with bearing a second child.”

“Dom’s been commissioned by the American government for some sort of mission,” Mallorie says, making a face. “We were considering moving here anyway, and his partner is a lovely man--you really must meet Arthur--but he doesn’t have much time for anything else.” Personally, the only reason Mallorie hasn’t lost her mind is Dom’s promise that this will be the first and _only_ time he does any sort of government fieldwork. After this, it’s pure research for them both, pure research and taking care of the baby.

“So tell me about your latest bit of brilliance,” Kalinda says, helping herself to the bowl of chocolates Mallorie keeps on the living room table. “I’m sure you’ve been having better luck than me. Did you know that shared dreaming is hard to do without all the drugs and wires and things? Shock, that.”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” Mallorie says, repeating one of Dom’s favorite cliches. “I’ve been working on dreams within dreams within dreams. Layers, you know. Being able to go that deep into the subconscious will have untold uses in the field of psycho-oneirology.”

“And you want to go exploring,” Kalinda adds, grinning. Mallorie motions in the direction of her mouth to indicate the smear of chocolate there. "I was saving that for later," Kalinda protests, but wipes her mouth.

“The mind is a mysterious place. We’re still not certain what projections are, exactly. Are they meant to be a natural defense mechanism, or do they merely manifest that way? What effect does the subject’s relationship with the dreamer have on shared dreaming? I could devote a lifetime to answering either question.”

“You talk like a professor, you know.”

Mallorie snorts. “If you tell me I am becoming my mother, I will hurt you.”

Kalinda picks up the first in a stack of notebooks on the table, flipping through the pages. “D’you want me to take this all home with me, then? I can get together a research team in London. Missy sends her love, by the way. She’s already started knitting a baby blanket.”

“Tell her that we look forward to it. You’re sure that this won’t interrupt your research?”

“Nah. Natural shared dreaming is an incredible experience, but my funding’s about to run out and I should probably spend some time with the family and the lady friend.” Kalinda pokes her. “And the rest of my friends, mind you. I haven’t seen enough of you since your wedding.”

Mallorie smiles her apology, feeling the baby turn over within her. “Well, you’ll be seeing a lot of me, if only on video conference. I will expect weekly updates.”

“Nothing but the best for you, love,” Kalinda promises. “Let’s work out some particulars.”

*

“--and the latest article from Dr. Roberts is patently absurd. I don’t know _what_ he gets up to in that lab of his.”

“He did have something interesting to say about the sort of drugs he’s using to induce the shared state,” Mallorie argues, taking a sip of coffee. She’s awake at 5:00 A.M. to compensate for the time difference, though she doesn’t really mind. Ever since her first pregnancy, she and Kalinda have made a habit of weekly chats via webcam.

“One interesting bit does not a real scholar make,” Kalinda says, then turns as the door slams on her end. “Oi, Eames! That had better be real curry you have this time! I’m Indian, I know things!” She faces the camera once more. “That’s the latest addition to the team. Ace forger, but I’m sort of glad he’s freelance. I get the feeling he’s not quite--legal.”

“Be awfully boring if I was!” says a voice off-screen.

Kalinda holds up two fingers in his direction, laughing. “Anyway, before I go to lunch, I’m thinking of visiting the States in September. I theoretically could make it to Paris near your anniversary, but I know you two will be busy being disgusting together.”

“I resent that remark,” Dom says sleepily, coming in to the study with a slumbering Phillipa in tow. “‘Lo, Kal.”

“Morning, Dom. Ooh, she’s getting so big! Who’s a little precious, then?”

“She can’t hear you,” Dom says, amused.

“She can sense that her Auntie Kal loves her. All right, if I put off lunch any longer, I’ll faint. Love to you all!”

“Love to you and Missy,” Mallorie says, Dom echoing the sentiment. As the screen goes dark, she looks up at her husband. “Did Phillipa miss me, or did you?”

“You know I can never sleep after you get up,” he replies, and kisses her good morning.

*

“I’m not sure, Mal.”

“You are being overcautious,” Mallorie says, laying a hand over Dom’s. “We’ve been planning this for years. We’re ready.”

Dom laces his fingers through hers, his eyes still lowered to their joined hands. Mallorie follows his gaze, seeing the way sunlight glints off their wedding rings. A matched set. She waits for him to reach his own conclusions, knowing that they will be so close to hers as to be interchangeable.

His face splits into a grin, and the inevitable thrill of it makes her toes curl. She never forgets that her husband is a very handsome man, but it is delightful to be reminded all the same. “Be a shame to waste all those pretty buildings I designed.”

“Just as long as _I_ think they’re pretty,” she teases. “Sometimes I wonder about you.”

In the soft morning sunlight streaming through the windows, Mallorie adjusts the settings on the PASIV device. Three levels of dreaming. Anticipation is thick on her tongue, light in her blood. Perhaps three levels down is where they will discover the secret of inception. Perhaps three levels down will tell them how to rescue those researchers trapped in a dreaming state, so far gone that they cannot be found on any upper subconscious levels.

“Are you ready?” she asks Dom. He nods.

At first glance, she knows that Dom designed the first level specifically for her. She gasps in delight at the wide marble room, at the intricate mosaic beneath her feet. Her mind searches for a pattern amidst the swoops of color, but it shifts every time she manages a proper glimpse of it.

“I’ve missed dreaming with you,” Dom says, looking so pleased with himself that Mallorie has to kiss him.

“The pillars are a nice touch,” she says. The pillars, per the logic of dreams, hold the ceiling up despite being delicate glass columns filled with aquamarine water. Tropical fish swim up and down, little shocks of color in all the blue-green.

There was no need to go to such lengths for a level they will only spend a few minutes in, but Dom is prone to romantic gestures. It’s been a year and a half since she and Dom have been able to dream together, from the beginning of her pregnancy to the hectic months following James’ birth. The thought of James brings with it the inevitable twinge of worry; this is the first time he has ever been away from home.

“Your parents will take good care of them,” Dom says. Mallorie shoots him a grateful smile as she sets up the second PASIV device.

“We shall have to decide how to spend the rest of the day when we wake up,” she says, and her smile turns sly.

Adjusting to the second level takes a few minutes. Mallorie’s hand is around her totem before she is able to take a deep breath and force herself to see the unreality in her surroundings, the way the shelves of food are on the outside of the refrigerator, how the dishes rest against the cupboard doors. This kitchen reminds her of reading _Alice in Wonderland_ , and she half expects to see a bottle on the table labeled “Drink me.”

Instead, there is a familiar briefcase.

“Here we go,” Mallorie breathes, fingers already flipping switches and pressing keys, reaching to inject the somnacin. Dom moves just as fast, excitement shimmering between them like waves of heat, the hiss of the machine--

\--the wind in the orange blossoms. The strange blue of the sky. The spiralling staircase leading up to the tallest tree.

“You are afraid we won’t wake up,” Mallorie realizes.

Dom shoots her a startled look, one hand sliding into his pocket, and then his face smooths into calm. “I almost forgot where we were just now. You almost forgot up there. I’m not taking any chances on something this dangerous.”

“Mm. Isn’t it a bit unwise? Your projections will sense me that much faster.” Mallorie is on the move, letting intuition lead her where it will. Exploring the subconscious requires a careful balance between planning and instinct. It is an art, really.

“We shouldn't spend too much time down here on the first go-round.”

“I agree,” Mallorie says, tilting her head to stare at the horizon. Everything converges on the tree with the spiral staircase, no matter which way she turns. “I suppose we should head in that direction.”

“Please don’t psychoanalyze me based on dream architecture again.”

“I can’t imagine what an enormous tree endlessly enclosed by a staircase might symbolize.”

“Thanks, Mal.”

Though the structure looks far away, it takes only seconds to reach, their footsteps soft on grass that isn’t quite there. Dom keeps looking around, searching for projections that aren’t there. Mallorie keeps her eyes trained upwards, fascinated by the way the stairs hang in the sky without any support. Her whole body wants to go upward.

“This isn’t as polished as your normal work. It’s taken on a life of its own,” Mallorie says, putting her foot on the first bone white stair.

“Jack and the beanstalk,” Dom muses. “Think there’s a giant up there?”

“Name the fear,” Mallorie says, “and it’s real.”

The architecture of a dream is like a story, the shape of it derived from the foundation beneath the surface. Mallorie avoids wondering about the tree in the heart of Dom’s subconscious, about where its roots lie. Stray thoughts have a way of working their way into the narrative. Instead, she slips her hand into her pocket and grips her totem, focusing on its unnatural smoothness. In dreams, the metal of her totem is luxurious against her skin, the purest steel.

“I don’t think we’re getting anywhere,” she says after a time--moments or days, she isn’t sure. The sky is the same shade of blue, and when she risks a glance at the ground, they don’t appear to be any higher.

“It’s an apple tree,” Dom replies, reaching out to brush aside a branch. Beneath that branch is a branch loaded with small, unripe apples. “See?”

Against her better judgment, Mallorie looks, but she isn’t enough of a fool to touch. The pale green of the apples is lurid against the dark leaves and brittle branches. She blinks, wondering if her eyes are playing tricks on her, but there it is again. “They’re getting smaller,” she says, and it’s then that the landscape shudders.

Dom shouts, “Run!” and Mallorie lets go of her totem to snatch his hand in her own. The creak and groan of timber fills the air as the impossible tree contracts in on itself, plunging back into the earth. The staircase is in upheaval, breaking apart stair by stair from the ground up. She and Dom flee up the stairs, seeking refuge in some hidden cloud.

They’re going to die, and they’re not going to wake up.

“I know I put something up here!” Dom is frantic, frustrated, clawing at empty air. “The exit, there’s always an exit!”

“Always,” Mallorie agrees, her mind gone still and clear with the peculiar lucidity of crisis. They have only a few more stairs beneath them, though the stretch above them is as endless as ever. “My love, we must take a leap of faith.”

Dom looks at her, grimacing for a moment as if to refuse her. Then he cups her chin with one hand and presses a chaste kiss to her lips. “I’m with you.”

Hand in hand, they step off the stairs and into the abyss.

*

She breaks through the surface, an idea of a dream of a woman, and is pulled back under the inky water. She has time for one conscious thought: _Where is Dom?_ Then there is nothing.

*

Her tongue and eyelids are crusted with salt and sand. She struggles onto her elbows, spitting and rubbing at her eyes. Her hands are the first thing to swim into focus: they are pale against the wet sand and strangely incomplete. The cold is bitter, despite the glare of the sun overhead, and she attempts to curl in on herself. Her limbs protest further movement.

_I have died,_ she despairs, cradled by the seaside. _Where is Dom?_

Mallorie lets out a sob when she hears someone coughing next to her. She rolls over and there is her husband, partially submerged in the surf. Somehow, she finds the strength to crawl over to him and tug at his outstretched hands, weak as a newborn but more determined. “Wake up, wake up,” she pleads, going as far as to pinch him with her ragged nails. “Wake up!”

He opens his eyes. “Mal,” he breathes, as though invoking something holy.

She falls upon him, kissing him over and over again, the waves tracing their outline in the sand. She murmurs to him in French and he holds her in English. “We have found the shared dreaming state. It is a sea of subconscious, a limbo on land,” she whispers, half-incomprehensible but still a scientist, an explorer. “We’re alive, we must look.”

Her wish is overly optimistic, at least for the moment. They spend at least an hour on the beach just breathing, feeling the life return to their salt-stiffened bodies. Mallorie catches herself humming “La Mer” and laughs so hard that she almost chokes.

At last, they pick themselves up and begin their walk. Depending which way Mallorie looks, things are either eerily normal or merely eerie. The sea of the subconscious looks nearly innocent, pulling the waves back into the water like a lady tugging up her dress, but the landscape beyond the beach is one vast gray nothing. The grayness roils like fog, but thinner, as though she could puff up her cheeks and blow the rest of this world away.

“First, we lay the foundation.” As ever, Dom can read her thoughts. She loops an arm around his waist, seeking his solid warmth. She does not remember their clothes drying, but the chill lingers even beyond the water. She thinks that this sun does not give off anything but light.

They kneel in the sand and sculpt the city with their bare hands, finding no need for tools. The sand is suggestible: conceive a shape, and it will adhere to that form. Mallorie clucks her tongue over the strict functionality of some of the high rise buildings Dom constructs, but he stays her hand when she moves to change them. “Nothing is ever perfect,” he says.

“All cities are a bit lonely,” Mallorie agrees, and their city proceeds from there. The overall shape is stark, more New York than Paris, but they soften the interior, hide gentle places amidst the grandeur. It becomes a game for them. Mallorie and Dom are forever delighting one another with architectural surprises, and the game stretches on for hours, or perhaps days.

Finally, Mallorie dusts off her hands and says, “It’s time to explore what we’ve made.”

Dom frowns down at a piece of the city. “Is this your parents’ house?”

“Don’t worry about it! I know that we are dreaming.” Still, speaking the words aloud is startling. Mallorie conceals her discomfort with a shrug of her shoulder. “It is our duty to see what can be made of limbo, in the name of scientific inquiry.”

“I don’t think that we should lose sight of what’s important.” Dom closes his eyes, and says, as if from a great distance, “What about James? What about Philippa?”

“They will be there when we wake up.” Mallorie stands, extending a hand to Dom. “You are concerned, I know. You are curious, I know. We cannot help but explore our creation. We cannot be less than what we are.”

*

They grow old together, as they wrote in their wedding vows. Their wrinkles deepen, but their lifelines remain the same, twined together when they hold hands. Mallorie laughs, glorying in their world, and if she weeps, sometimes, over two half-remembered children, well. They will wake up someday, no later than they left. Until then, they have their projections, their little shades that come when called and never age as their real children someday will. It's wrong, to preserve them in amber like this. Dom knows and lets it trouble him. Mallorie knows and tucks it away, locks it within the labyrinth of her heart.

Then there is a day her old bones tremble in paper-thin skin, her blood so light it might as well be air. Subtle earthquakes shake the ground, buildings collapsing with soft sighs. Dom is her steady ground. She runs to him, clings, weeps. "This isn't _real_ ," she moans. "Dom, I want to wake up. Dom…" From her lips issues a string of nonsense syllables, neither French nor English, as though language itself is undone.

Dom brushes her tears away with his thumbs. "Shh, sweetheart, shh. Just think. You're waiting for a train. A train that will take you far, far away." His voice has the cadence of a lullaby, a bedtime story. Memory floods back: James and Philippa curled up Dom's lap, an old copy of _Winnie the Pooh_ in Dom's hands. Mallorie can feel the softness of the blanket she pulled over all three, the little balls where the fabric pilled. Real. That was real.

This here is nothing. All the world falls away.

They choose a grandiose means of suicide to match the grandiose city they made of limbo. "It has to be sure," Mallorie explains. "I want to be sure that we wake up in the real world."

The train tracks rattle as they lay their heads down, reciting the litany, In the end, this is no more difficult than lying down to sleep. Sometimes they fabricated sleep in limbo, closing their eyes when the lights dimmed, so that later they could have the pleasure of waking to brightness. Bright lights cutting through the dark. 

Headlights. _You're waiting for a train. A train that will take you far, far away._

When the train hits, it's not like the sun at all.

*

They pass through the dream layers to waking. Rather than open her eyes right away, Mallorie watches the shadows on the wall of her eyelids, waiting for them to form recognizable images.

"Mal." Dom's hands close around her shoulders, shaking her in progressively rougher intervals. "Mal!"

"I'm awake," she says, and his face swims into focus above her.

He smiles. "Let's go find James and Phillipa. It must be time for the babysitter to go home."

The children are in the backyard, investigating an anthill in the grass. They look up at the same time and run for their parents, as if they know how many decades they just spent in limbo. To a child, an hour might feel like an eternity. Mallorie catches James in her arms and croons at him in French. When he responds, it's only in English, not a mixture of the two languages like usual.

Mallorie draws back, frowning. "Are you mad, Maman?" James asks.

"Too much time in America," she decides, smoothing his hair. "We must work on your French."

But there are other inconsistencies. The herbs growing on the windowsill are out of order. The leaky faucet in the upstairs bathroom is fixed, but the downstairs one drips unless turned off a special way. It takes five minutes to walk to their favorite restaurant, not twenty.

"I wonder about the effects long-term dreaming has on the memory," Mallorie muses aloud. The family is having dinner, though she can't remember preparing the meal. First she was reading in the sunshine, and then here they are in the dining room. Easy and uneasy.

Dom looks at her over his forkful of salad, pale as the napkin on his lap. "You're still having trouble?" James and Phillipa turn toward him, catching his anxiety. Dom forces himself to relax. "We were--away for so long. It's natural to remember things out of order, or expect things to be like how we built them. It's just taking you a little while."

His words form a plea she doesn't understand, and his eyes never meet hers.

"I could write about this," she says. "Research further. My mother has some thoughts on memory, no doubt, and I can always talk things over with Kal. We haven't seen Arthur in so long that it's downright _rude_ of us--"

But Dom interrupts her. "We're done with that life," he says, putting down his fork, still laden with salad. "We talked about this."

"I don't remember," Mallorie says. She covers her face with her hands and begins to laugh: a high, thin sound. "I don't remember at all."

*

Dom discovers her weeping one day, tomato pulp dripping from her hand like blood. "It isn't _right_ ," is all she can say. _Maman, are you mad?_ She clutches her husband because he is the only thing exactly like she remembers. For all he varies, Dom is familiar.

"We'll go away," he promises. "Your mother wants to visit; she can take care of the children. We'll go to Paris. Our anniversary is coming up." He keeps talking, a current of soothing words. All Mallorie can hear is, _You're waiting for a train._

"We have to wake up," she says, so quietly the words are lost in the fabric of Dom's shirt. She doesn't know why those words slip out in that order. She doesn't know anything anymore.

Time stretches, contracts, even pops. They must make the arrangements, they must eat three meals a day and sleep for eight hours a night, but Mallorie's next set of clear images is her mother walking off a plane. She treats James and Phillipa to a solemn kiss on the forehead, then presses a kiss to Dom's cheek, and then it's Mallorie's turn. For once in her life, her mother isn't wearing any perfume. Mallorie forgets to ask why.

Then they're back at the house, sunlight streaming through the windows (always sunlight, like a fever dream, never a rainy day). Her mother has a glass of wine in hand, her lips a crescent of affection as the children design castles in the air. Dom is on the phone in the other room, just visible through the doorway. His shoulders are tight.

Mallorie tries to speak and sputters, choking on liquid she never registered. Wine spatters on the kitchen floor, too dark to be blood. She sinks to her knees and mops up the mess with a towel. Her mother shoos the children from the room when Mallorie begins to cry, quietly at first, then in great gulping sobs.

"My love, it was only a little wine," she says. "Not even one of the bottles I brought from France. It will be all right. Hush."

_You're waiting for a train._

"It didn't taste like anything," Mallorie says, leaning her head against her mother's shoulder. Something tugs at her memory, what scattered pieces are left. "Where is my totem?" She used to spin it in limbo. She even grew so bold as to hand it to Dom to let him test of the boundaries of their new reality. They made a game of chasing it, dreamed up new flat surfaces to send it across.

"I wish your father would stop teaching that as the only way of knowing when you're dreaming. It's dangerous to rely on one tool overmuch."

_Architects are so caught up in appearances. It takes a great artist to call upon all the senses._

Mallorie kneels alone in her kitchen. She rises, steady on her feet at last. _A glass of wine, the taste of bread_ is what her mother uses to keep her hold on reality. The wine was scarcely a shadow in her mouth. There is a baguette on the kitchen counter waiting to be sliced for dinner. Her husband and her mother laugh from the next room and Mallorie hesitates. In an instant, she could open her eyes in the same room as them. They woke up, didn't they? Is it just her mind playing tricks?

The knife in hand. The slice of bread, soft and room temperature. So many details correct, either because this is real or her husband is a genius. Mallorie lifts the bread to her lips and tastes. There is weight on her tongue, and a slight hint of yeast. She chews, waiting for flavor that never comes.

Ten seconds later, she is writing a note to Dom.

Twenty seconds later, she is smashing things in a hotel room, another kind of message.

Thirty seconds later, Dom is pleading with her, she is pleading with him, they beg each other, and she sees there is only one way to convince him.

She pushes herself off the ledge. She stops counting seconds.

*

Machines beep as Mallorie opens her eyes. A nurse gasps and runs from the room, calling for doctors in an American accent.

*

Mallorie spends days embracing her loved ones, but in the waking world, she can sense the time between every one. James and Phillipa are first, and then her parents close behind. "We've been waiting for you, my Psyche," her father says, British upper lip quivering. Her mother, her coolly intellectual mother, weeps unashamed. In Mallorie's absence, the children didn't grow old enough to understand happy tears, thank God. They look at their grandmother, confused.

Then Phillipa asks, "When is Daddy going to wake up?"

It's then that her mother takes over, speaking where her father cannot. "Soon, my love. Why don't you and your brother and your grandfather go visit for a little while? I want to help your mama get ready to come home."

Then she sits on the edge of the bed, taking one of Mallorie's hands in both of hers. "Both of you have been asleep for a month. You are the first to wake. The mother you met before waking, the one who brought the bread--that was me." More tears roll down her mother's face. "We thought we wouldn't be able to wake you. Your friend Kalinda called in your people, and your father brought in one of his architecture students. We went after you and Dom, but you were the only one we could reach."

In her mind's eye, a totem spins, and spins, and spins. "Dom's work," she says aloud, then shakes her head at her mother's questioning look. They can talk of complicated spousal decisions later. "Who was on the team?"

"Arthur went after your husband, naturally. Saito. Fischer. Someone Kalinda recommended, a Mr. Eames. Your father and I were responsible for you. Yusuf acted as chemist for both teams. The student of your father's, Ariadne, she did remarkable work trying to save Dom."

Her mother's voice is as gentle as Mallorie has ever heard it, trying to soften the blow. But Mallorie sidesteps the blow, mind already racing ahead to plan their next rescue. A large team to take into Dom's mind, to cast layer upon layer of deceit over his mind until his mind is force to slough them all off and come back to the light. She knows Yusuf by reputation. His compounds guarantee satisfaction. As for the unknown factor, this student Ariadne--for her mother to speak highly of her, she must be gifted. Mallorie will judge for herself as soon as she's strong enough to go under.

"You can't," her mother says, her eyes narrowing. "Your _children._ "

"My children need their father," she counters, gaze steady. "Let me see Arthur. Tell him that I know what we need to do."

*

Arthur is the same as she remembers: neatly pressed, but with a wry good humor if you look for it. Eames makes quicksilver jokes and pulls a coin from behind Phillipa's ear, then James's when he begs for a turn. Saito, as always, wears a quiet smile as though he's just heard a joke beyond anyone else's comprehension; the expression drops only when he promises to help her get her husband back. Yusuf beams when he meets her, tells her it's an honor. Robert Fischer continues to look about sixteen years old to her matron's eyes. The new girl, Ariadne, looks just as young. When she shows Mallorie her designs, Mallorie shoves them away.

"I'm sorry," she says, collecting herself. Ariadne looks terrified. "Dom taught you, didn't he? In your last operation."

"Yeah." Ariadne fidgets. "You were there. Or your shade. You're much less stab-happy."

"Oh, just you wait," Arthur says. Then: "Mal. You don't have to come with us. The doctors don't want you dreaming for another six months, for God's sake."

"Dom would do the same for me," Mallorie snarls. "If he had woken first, you would be having this exact conversation with him! Now shut up and listen, all of you."

The plan is: there is no plan. No mazes, no monsters. "You must design a series of tasks for me," Mallorie says to Ariadne. "Leave a thread to pull. Let it seem like Eames wants to torment me, that I have only my resourcefulness. My allies--" she nods to Saito, Fischer, and Arthur--"will be killed before the final task. Dom's heart will be moved. He will help me."

And she whispers to Eames what the final task will be.

What she means to do is change the myth. She has been Psyche all her life, the woman who wanted to know her lover's face, who held the lamp and drove him away. Stories have power in the subconscious. In the stories, the curiosity of women is never rewarded but the strength of their loyalty is.

In two days, they are ready.

Mallorie opens her eyes in a desert on the edge of a crashing ocean, eerily reminiscent of the sea of subconscious. The smell of salt lingers in the air, but the dry heat cracks her lips. "Dom!" she shouts over the waves. "I know you're here! Dom!"

"I have him," says a voice, and Mallorie turns to see herself.

Eames is the best forger she's ever met. It's like looking into a warped mirror, Mallorie as seen through running water. _I'm going to forge your shade,_ he explained before they went under. _That's what Dom expects to see._ Since she leapt from a building without him, Dom's vision of her is a woman in black, dress billowing in the scorching wind.

"I have come to take him back," Mallorie says.

Eames-as-her-shade narrows flat blue eyes. "You can have him back if you and your companions complete one simple task for me." Per the logic of dreams, there is suddenly a large sack in Eames's hands. He dumps it on the ground. "Sort all these by type of grain. I will return on the hour. For every hour it takes, one of your friends will die, Mallorie Cobb." He sets a large hourglass in front of them and vanishes.

They kneel in the sand, grains spilling through their hands. "This is impossible," Fischer says. "We're all going to get killed, and where will that leave us?"

"We have to try," Arthur says, already sorting. "So far I see chickpeas, red lentils, and black beans."

Saito says, "Nice of her to color coordinate."

Mallorie says nothing, and joins Arthur in his sorting. Ariadne, who knows the myth as well, wanted to put all four tasks in her dreamscape. _No,_ Mallorie said. _The simpler, the better. One task. Five lives, though Dom will think it's four._

The the end of the first hour, they are little better than where they started, thanks to the grains that replicate themselves. Subtle work. Her parents were right about Ariadne.

Eames-as-her-shade summons an ax. The muscles in her arms flex with terrible purpose, and Fischer's head rolls across the sand.

Mallorie presses her lips together and continues to work.

Another hour, the sun watching them like an angry eye. There's a definite presence here now, since the first blood spilled. Dom is watching from somewhere; Dom is watching as Saito loses his head. It rolls to join Fischer's, leaving a trail of blood to darken the sand.

Mallorie exchanges a long glance with Arthur and they pick up the pace. Ariadne's replication system slows down in response, enough to give them a scrap of hope as they labor under the boiling sky. The corpses reek of rotten meat, replacing the salt tang of the sea. Mallorie closes her eyes for a moment when nausea rises, but has to force them open again. She must sort by sight as well as feel.

"We'll get him," Arthur says. He speaks in layers, like a dream. "We'll do it because we have to, no matter how impossible it is."

Mallorie puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes it. "Come on. We're wasting time."

The piles grow: corn, chickpeas, red lentils, black beans, wheat, barley, and poppyseed. Some of these they had to look up on a computer to find. _We're not exactly farmers,_ Ariadne said, wry as Arthur in one of his moods. _After this we'll be experts._ The piles grow, but too slowly, and the third hour slips by.

"Tick tock," is all Eames-as-her-shade says before he cuts off Arthur's head. Mallorie screams in spite of herself. There's a flicker of movement behind one of the sand dunes. She prays it's Dom and not her actual shade.

She's even quicker to sort the grains, unfeigned tears rolling down her cheeks. There are a thousand ways for this to go wrong. If the real shade shows up, Dom will be thrown into confusion. If they've altered the story too much, it could lose its power--the final task in the myth is a trip to the underworld, but they're already beyond consciousness, surely there's enough symbolism in that--

_You have to believe the role you're playing,_ Eames advised their group. _The stakes have to be real, real enough to draw Dom out. He's lost his grip on reality, but he still doesn't want to believe he's dreaming._

"Dom," Mallorie whispers. "Dom, where are you?"

Her tears dry to itchy tracks of salt on her skin. She regrets the loss of moisture; the sun seems to have grown larger, bearing down upon her. The skin of her arms has flushed an angry pink. She catches her dry lower lip on her teeth and it splits. A few drops of her blood join her comrades', sinking into the endless sand. Lentil, bean, wheat, corn, chickpea, barley, poppyseed. She will know them forever, feel them rolling under her fingers as she dreams ordinary dreams. There is no lost husband, no distant architect, no dead team, nothing beyond this task. The piles grow. She is almost there. Almost, almost.

Mallorie risks a look at the hourglass. There is only a scattering of sand left, about thirty seconds before she will lose her head. " _No!_ " she screams, her voice a shredded imitation of itself, and her motions become frantic. From somewhere within her comes enough moisture to produce more tears.

"Mal! Mal, I'm coming!"

And Dom is there, the prince in the fairytale, throwing himself to his knees as he scrabbles alongside her in the sand.

"You'll die," she chokes out, but her fingers continue their work.

He flashes her a smile. "Live or die, it doesn't matter."

"As long as we're together," she says, as the last grains of sand fall.

The story isn't supposed to go this way, with the hero and heroine dying, but it's a story Dom has told himself enough times that his mind believes it. Eames-as-her-shade appears before them, lips twisted in a cruel smile. "This is your choice? Damn your husband as well as yourself? What a sad pair. I'll be glad to wear another face."

Something shimmers in the distance. There's another Mallorie running toward them as Eames raises the ax, another Mallorie shrieking as he brings it down.

"Oh," Mallorie says. Her husband has lost his head. There's a knife in her gut. The real shade, the Mallorie that isn't, falls to the ground, writhing. More blood on the sand. The smell of it, she's going to smell it forever, the dream is too real--

Her eyes open.

*

Mallorie flies from her seat to kiss Dom, stale hospital breath and all. She's laughing, she's crying. "You're awake!" she says. She crushes herself against him. More tears. No blood here, thank God. "I love you. Never leave me again."

"I won't," he says, so she releases him to let the others see what they've accomplished.

"Good to see you," Arthur says quietly.

"Especially after I cut off your head, mate." Eames grins, unrepentant.

There are congratulations, hugs, welcomes, handshakes. Dom draws Ariadne into a conversation about architecture within ten seconds of meeting her in person, though he keeps hold of Mallorie's hand the entire time. When her parents show up with James and Phillipa, the team withdraws to let them have their privacy.

"Don't leave without saying goodbye!" Mallorie calls.

They are strange people, these dreamers, like stray cats. Still, they stay long enough to have dinner after Dom's release from the hospital. Kalinda flies all the way from England, insistent that a proper welcome back can only happen in person. Mallorie pours the wine and slices the bread. She will never lose this, this need to prove reality to herself, but when she chases her wine with a kiss, she knows she can bear it. Perhaps now she'll have time to write a research paper.

Mallorie is thirty-three years old, undone but perpetually remaking herself, a story of her own telling. She sleeps untroubled by dreams.


End file.
